Who were the men that revived religion in England a hundred years ago? What
were their names, that we may do them honor? Where were they born? How were
they educated? What are the leading facts in their lives? What was their
special department of labor? To these questions I wish to supply some
answers in the present and future chapters.

I pity the man who takes no interest in such inquiries.
The instruments that God employs to do His work in the world deserve a close
inspection. The man who did not care to look at the rams horns that blew
down Jericho, the hammer and nail that slew Sisera, the lamps and trumpets
of Gideon, the sling and stone of David, might fairly be set down as a cold
and heartless person. I trust that all who read this volume will like to
know something about the English evangelists of the eighteenth century.

The first and foremost whom I will name is the well-known
George Whitefield. Though not the first in order, if we look at the date of
his birth, I place him first in the order of merit, without any
hesitation. Of all the spiritual heroes of a hundred years ago, none saw so
soon as Whitefield what the times demanded, and none were so forward in the
great work of spiritual aggression. I would think I committed an act of
injustice if I placed any name before his.

Whitefield was born at Gloucester in the year 1714. The
city where Hooper preached and prayed, and where the zealous Miles Smith
protested, was the place where the greatest preacher of the gospel
England has ever seen was born.

Whitefield's early life, according to his own account,
was anything but religious; though, like many boys, he had occasional
prickings of conscience and spasmodic fits of devout feeling. But habits
and general tastes are the only true test of young people's characters.
He confesses that he was "addicted to lying, filthy talking, and foolish
jesting", and that he was a 'Sabbath-breaker, a theater-goer, a card-player,
and a romance reader". All this, he says, went on until he was fifteen years
old.

At the age of fifteen Whitefield appears to have left
school, and to have given up Latin and Greek for a season. In all
probability, his mother's straitened circumstances made it absolutely
necessary for him to do something to assist her in business and to get his
own living. He began, therefore, to help her in the daily work of the Bell
Inn. "At length", he says, "I put on my blue apron, washed cups, cleaned
rooms, and, in one word, became a professed common drawer for near a year
and a half."

This state of things, however, did not last long. His
mother's business at the Bell did not flourish, and she finally retired from
it altogether. An old school-fellow revived in his mind the idea of going to
Oxford, and he went back to the Grammar School and renewed his studies.
Friends were raised up who made interest for him at Pembroke College,
Oxford, where the Grammar School of Gloucester held two exhibitions. And at
length, after several providential circumstances had smoothed the way, he
entered Oxford as a servitor at Pembroke at the age of eighteen.

Whitefield's residence at Oxford was the great
turning-point in his life. For two or three years before he went to the
University his journal tells us that he had not been without religious
convictions. But from the time of his entering Pembroke College these
convictions fast ripened into decided Christianity. He diligently attended
all means of grace within his reach. He spent his leisure time in visiting
the city prison, reading to the prisoners, and trying to do good. He became
acquainted with the famous John Wesley and his brother Charles, and a little
band of like-minded young men, including the well-known author of Theron and
Aspasio, James Hervey. These were the devoted party to whom the name
"Methodists" was first applied, on account of their strict "method" of
living. At one time he seems to have greedily devoured such books as Thomas
Kempis, and Castanuza's Spiritual Combat, and to have been in danger of
becoming a semi-papist, an ascetic, or a mystic, and of placing the whole of
religion in self-denial. He says in his Journal, I always chose the worst
sort of food. I fasted twice a week. My apparel was mean. I thought it
unbecoming a penitent to have his hair powdered. I wore woollen gloves, a
patched gown, and dirty shoes; and though I was convinced that the kingdom
of God did not consist in meat and drink, yet I resolutely persisted in
these voluntary acts of self-denial, because I found in them great promotion
of the spiritual life." Out of all this darkness he was gradually delivered,
partly by the advice of one or two experienced Christians, and partly by
reading such books as Scougal's Life of God in the Soul of Man, Law's
Serious Call, Baxter's Call to the Unconverted, Alleine's Alarm to
Unconverted Sinners, and Matthew Henry's Commentary. "Above all," he says,
"my mind being now more opened and enlarged, I began to read the Holy
Scriptures upon my knees, laying aside all other books, and praying over, if
possible, every line and word. This proved food indeed and drink indeed
to my soul. I daily received fresh life, light, and power from above. I got
more true knowledge from reading the Book of God in one month than I
could ever have acquired from all the writings of men." Once taught to
understand the glorious liberty of Christ's gospel, Whitefield never turned
again to asceticism, legalism, mysticism, or strange views of Christian
perfection. The experience received by bitter conflict was most valuable to
him. The doctrines of free grace, once thoroughly grasped, took deep root in
his heart, and became, as it were, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh.
Of all the little band of Oxford Methodists, none seem to have got hold so
soon of clear views of Christ's gospel as he did, and none kept it so
unwaveringly to the end.

At the early age of twenty-two Whitefield was admitted to
holy orders by Bishop Benson of Gloucester, on Trinity Sunday, 1736. His
ordination was not of his own seeking. The bishop heard of his character
from Lady Selwyn and others, sent for him, gave him five guineas to buy
books, and offered to ordain him, though only twenty-two years old, whenever
he wished. This unexpected offer came to him when he was full of scruples
about his own fitness for the ministry. It cut the knot and brought him to
the point of decision. "I began to think," he says, "that if I held out
longer I should fight against God."

Whitefield's first sermon was preached in the very town
where he was born, at the church of St. Mary-le-Crypt, Gloucester. His own
description of it is the best account that can be given: "Last Sunday, in
the afternoon, I preached my first sermon in the church of St.
Mary-le-Crypt, where I was baptized, and also first received the sacrament
of the Lord's Supper. Curiosity, as you may easily guess, drew a large
congregation together upon this occasion. The sight at first a little awed
me. But I was comforted with a heartfelt sense of the divine presence, and
soon found the unspeakable advantage of having been accustomed to public
speaking when a boy at school, and of exhorting the prisoners and poor
people at their private houses while at the university. By these means I was
kept from being daunted overmuch. As I proceeded I perceived the fire
kindled, until at last, though so young and amidst a crowd of those who knew
me in my childish days, I trust I was enabled to speak with some degree of
gospel authority. Some few mocked—but most seemed for the present struck;
and I have since heard that a complaint was made to the bishop that I drove
fifteen mad the first sermon! The worthy prelate wished that the madness
might not be forgotten before next Sunday."

Almost immediately after his ordination, Whitefield went
to Oxford and took his degree as Bachelor of Arts. He then commenced his
regular ministerial life by undertaking temporary duty at the Tower Chapel,
London, for two months. While engaged there he preached continually in many
London churches; and among others, in the parish churches of Islington,
Bishopsgate, St Dunstan's, St Margaret's, Westminster, and Bow, Cheapside.
From the very first he obtained a degree of popularity such as no preacher,
before or since, has probably ever reached. Whether on week-days or
Sundays, wherever he preached, the churches were crowded, and an immense
sensation was produced. The plain truth is, that a really eloquent,
extempore preacher, preaching the pure gospel with most uncommon gifts of
voice and manner, was at that time an entire novelty in London. The
congregations were taken by surprise and carried by storm.

From London he removed for two months to Dummer, a little
rural parish in Hampshire, near Basingstoke. This was a totally new sphere
of action, and he seemed like a man buried alive among poor illiterate
people. But he was soon reconciled to it, and thought afterwards that he
reaped much profit by conversing with the poor. From Dummer he accepted an
invitation, which had been much pressed on him by the Wesleys, to visit the
colony of Georgia in North America, and assist in the care of an Orphan
House which had been set up near Savannah for the children of colonists.
After preaching for a few months in Gloucestershire, and especially at
Bristol and Stonehouse, he sailed for America in the latter part of 1737,
and continued there about a year. The affairs of this Orphan House, it may
be remarked, occupied much of his attention from this period of his life
until he died. Though well-meant, it seems to have been a design of very
questionable wisdom, and certainly entailed on Whitefield a world of anxiety
and responsibility to the end of his days.

Whitefield returned from Georgia in the latter part of
the year 1738, partly to obtain priest's orders. Which were conferred on him
by his old friend, Bishop Benson, and partly on business connected with the
Orphan House. He soon, however, discovered that his position was no longer
what it was before he sailed for Georgia. The bulk of the clergy were no
longer favorable to him, and regarded him with suspicion as an enthusiast
and a fanatic. They were especially scandalized by his preaching the
doctrine of regeneration or the new birth, as a thing which many baptized
persons greatly needed! The number of pulpits to which he had access rapidly
diminished. Church wardens, who had no eyes for drunkenness and impurity,
were filled with intense indignation about what they called "breaches of
order". Bishops who could tolerate Arianism, Socinianism, and Deism, were
filled with indignation at a man who declared fully the atonement of Christ
and the work of the Holy Spirit, and began to denounce him openly. In short,
from this period of his life, Whitefield's field of usefulness within the
Church of England narrowed rapidly on every side.

The step which at this juncture gave a turn to the whole
current of Whitefield's ministry was his adoption of the system of
open-air preaching. Seeing that thousands everywhere would attend no
place of worship, spent their Sundays in idleness or sin, and were not to be
reached by sermons within walls—he resolved, in the spirit of holy
aggression, to go out after them "into the highways and hedges," on his
Master's principle, and "compel them to come in." His first attempt to do
this was among the colliers at Kingswood near Bristol, in February, 1739.
After much prayer he one day went to Hannam Mount, and standing upon a hill
began to preach to about a hundred colliers upon Matthew 5:1-3. The thing
soon became known. The number of hearers rapidly increased, until the
congregation amounted to many thousands. His own account of the behavior of
these neglected colliers, who had never been in a church in their lives, is
deeply affecting: "Having," he writes to a friend, "no righteousness of
their own to renounce, they were glad to hear of a Jesus who was a friend to
publicans, and came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. The
first discovery of their being affected was the sight of the white
gutters made by their tears, which plentifully fell down their black
cheeks as they came out of their coal-pits. Hundreds of them were soon
brought under deep conviction, which, as the event proved, happily ended in
a sound and thorough conversion. The change was visible to all, though
numbers chose to impute it to anything rather than the finger of God. As the
scene was quite new, it often occasioned many inward conflicts. Sometimes,
when twenty thousand people were before me, I had not in my own
apprehension a word to say either to God or them. But I was never totally
deserted, and frequently (for to deny it would be lying against God) was so
assisted that I knew by happy experience what our Lord meant by saying, "Out
of his belly shall flow rivers of living water." The open skies above me,
the prospect of the adjacent fields, with the sight of thousands, some in
coaches, some on horseback, and some in the trees, and at times all affected
and in tears, was almost too much for me—and quite overcame me."

Two months after this Whitefield began the practice of
open-air preaching in London, on April 27, 1739. The circumstances under
which this happened were curious. He had gone to Islington to preach for the
vicar, his friend Mr. Stonehouse. In the midst of the prayer the
churchwardens came to him and demanded his licence for preaching in the
diocese of London. Whitefield, of course, had not got this licence any more
than any clergyman not regularly officiating in the diocese has at this day.
The upshot of the matter was, that being forbidden by the churchwardens
to preach in the pulpit, he went outside after the communion-service, and
preached in the churchyard. "And," says he, "God was pleased to assist
me in preaching, and so wonderfully to affect the hearers, that I believe we
could have gone singing hymns to prison. Let not the adversaries say, I have
thrust myself out of their synagogues. No—they have thrust me out!"

From that day forward he became a constant
field-preacher, whenever weather and the season of the year made it
possible. Two days afterwards on Sunday, April 29th, he records: "I preached
in Moorfields to an exceeding great multitude. Being weakened by my
morning's preaching, I refreshed myself in the afternoon by a little sleep,
and at five went and preached at Kennington Common, about two miles from
London, when no less that thirty thousand people were supposed to be
present." Henceforth, wherever there were large open spaces round London,
wherever there were large bands of idle, godless, Sabbath-breaking people
gathered together, in Hackney Fields, Mary-le-bonne Fields, May Fair,
Smithfield, Blackheath, Moorfields, and Kennington Common—there went
Whitefield and lifted up his voice for Christ.

The gospel so proclaimed was listened to and greedily
received by hundreds who never dreamed of going to a place of worship. The
cause of pure religion was advanced, and souls were plucked from the hand of
Satan, like brands from the burning. But it was going much too fast for
the Church of England of those days. The clergy, with a few honorable
exceptions, refused entirely to countenance this strange preacher. In the
true spirit of the dog in the manger, they neither liked to go after the
semi-heathen masses of population themselves, nor liked any one else to do
the work for them. The consequence was, that the ministrations of Whitefield
in the pulpits of the Church of England from this time almost entirely
ceased. He loved the Church in which he had been ordained; he gloried in her
Articles; he used her Prayer-book with pleasure. But the Church did not love
him, and so lost the use of his services. The plain truth is, that the
Church of England of that day was not ready for a man like Whitefield. The
Church was too much asleep to understand him, and was vexed at a man who
would not keep still and let the devil alone!

The facts of Whitefield's history from this period to the
day of his death are almost entirely of one complexion. One year was just
like another; and to attempt to follow him would be only going repeatedly
over the same ground. From 1739 to the year of his death, 1770, a period of
thirty-one years, his life was one uniform employment. He was eminently a
man of one thing, and always about his Master's business. From Sunday
mornings to Saturday nights, from the 1st of January to the 31st of
December, excepting when laid aside by illness, he was almost incessantly
preaching Christ and going about the world entreating men to repent and come
to Christ and be saved. There was hardly a considerable town in England,
Scotland, or Wales, that he did not visit as an evangelist. When churches
were opened to him he gladly preached in churches; when only chapels could
be obtained, he cheerfully preached in chapels. When churches and chapels
alike were closed, or were too small to contain his hearers, he was ready
and willing to preach in the open air. For thirty-one years he labored in
this way, always proclaiming the same glorious gospel, and always, as far as
man's eye can judge, with immense effect. In one single Whitsuntide week,
after preaching in Moorfields, he received one thousand letters from
people under spiritual concern, and admitted to the Lord's table three
hundred and fifty persons. In the thirty-four years of his ministry it is
reckoned that he preached publicly eighteen thousand times.

His journeyings were prodigious, when the roads
and conveyances of his time are considered. He was familiar with "perils in
the wilderness and perils in the seas", if ever man was in modern times. He
visited Scotland fourteen times, and was nowhere more acceptable or useful
than he was in that Bible-loving country. He crossed the Atlantic seven
times, backward and forward, in miserable slow sailing ships, and arrested
the attention of thousands in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. He went
over to Ireland twice, and on one occasion was almost murdered by an
ignorant Popish mob in Dublin. As to England and Wales, he traversed every
country in them, from the Isle of Wight to Berwick-on-Tweed, and from the
Land's End to the North Foreland.

His regular ministerial work in London for the winter
season, when field-preaching was necessarily suspended, was something
prodigious. His weekly engagements at the Tabernacle in Tottenham Court
Road, which was built for him when the pulpits of the Established Church
were closed, comprised the following work: Every Sunday morning, he
administered the Lord's Supper to several hundred communicants at half-past
six. After this he read prayers, and preached both morning and afternoon.
Then he preached again in the evening at half-past five, and concluded by
addressing a large society of widows, married people, young men and
spinsters, all sitting separately in the area of the Tabernacle, with
exhortations suitable to their respective stations. On Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, and Thursday mornings, he preached regularly at six. On Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings, he delivered lectures.
This, it will be observed, made thirteen sermons a week! And all this
time he was carrying on a large correspondence with people in almost every
part of the world.

That any human frame could so long endure the labors that
Whitefield went through does indeed seem astonishing. That his life was not
cut short by violence, to which he was frequently exposed, is no less
amazing. But he was immortal until his work was done. He died at last
very suddenly at Newbury Port, in North America, on Sunday, September 29th,
1770, at the comparatively early age of fifty-six. He was once
married to a widow named James, of Abergavenny, who died before him. If we
may judge from the little mention made of his wife in his letters, his
marriage does not seem to have contributed much to his happiness. He
left no children—but he left a name far better than that of sons and
daughters. Never perhaps was there a man of whom it could be so truly said
that he spent and was spent for Christ than George Whitefield.

The circumstances and particulars of this great
evangelist's end are so deeply interesting, that I shall make no excuse for
dwelling on them. It was an end in striking harmony with the tenor of his
life. As he had lived for more than thirty years, so he died—preaching to
the very last. He literally almost died in harness. "Sudden death", he had
often said, "is sudden glory! Whether right or not, I cannot help wishing
that I may go off in the same manner. To me it would be worse than death to
live to be nursed, and to see friends weeping about me." He had the desire
of his heart granted. He was cut down in a single night by a spasmodic fit
of asthma, almost before his friends knew that he was ill.

On the morning of Saturday, September 29th, the day
before he died, Whitefield set out on horseback from Portsmouth in New
Hampshire, in order to fulfill an engagement to preach at Newbury Port on
Sunday. On the way, unfortunately, he was earnestly importuned to preach at
a place called Exeter, and though feeling very ill, he had not the heart to
refuse. A friend remarked before he preached that he looked more uneasy than
usual, and said to him, 'Sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to preach!"
To this Whitefield replied: "True, sir"; and then turning aside, he clasped
his hands together, and looking up, said: "Lord Jesus, I am weary in
your work—but not of your work. If I have not yet finished my course,
let me go and speak for you once more in the fields, seal your truth, and
come home and die." He then went and preached to a very great multitude in
the fields from the text 2 Corinthians 13:5, for the space of nearly two
hours. It was his last sermon, and a fitting conclusion to his whole
career.

An eye-witness has given the following striking account
of this closing scene of Whitefield's life: "He rose from his seat, and
stood erect. His appearance alone was a powerful sermon. The thinness of his
visage, the paleness of his countenance, the evident struggling of the
heavenly spark in a decayed body for utterance, were all deeply interesting;
the spirit was willing—but the flesh was dying. In this situation he
remained several minutes, unable to speak. He then said: "I will wait for
the gracious assistance of God, for He will, I am certain, assist me once
more to speak in his name." He then delivered perhaps one of his best
sermons. The latter part contained the following passage: 'I go; I go to a
rest prepared: my sun has given light to many—but now it is about to set—no,
to rise to the zenith of immortal glory. I have outlived many on earth—but
they cannot outlive me in heaven. Many shall outlive me on earth and live
when this body is no more—but there—oh, thought divine! I shall be in a
world where time, age, sickness, and sorrow are unknown. My body fails—but
my spirit expands. How willingly would I live forever to preach Christ. But
I die to be with him. How brief— comparatively brief—but has been my life
compared to the vast labors which I see before me yet to be accomplished.
But if I leave now, while so few care about heavenly things, may the God of
peace will surely visit you."

After the sermon was over, Whitefield dined with a
friend, and then rode on to Newbury Port, though greatly fatigued. On
arriving there he supped early, and retired to bed. Tradition says, that as
he went up-stairs, with a lighted candle in his hand, he could not resist
the inclination to turn around at the head of the stair, and speak to the
friends who were assembled to meet him. As he spoke the fire kindled within
him, and before he could conclude, the candle which he held in has hand had
actually burned down to the socket. He retired to his bedroom, to come out
no more alive. A violent fit of spasmodic asthma seized him soon after he
got into bed, and before six o'clock the next morning the great preacher was
dead. If ever man was ready for his change, Whitefield was that man! When
his time came, he had nothing to do—but die. Where he died there he was
buried, in a vault beneath the pulpit of the church where he had engaged to
preach. His sepulcher is shown to this very day; and nothing makes the
little town where he died so famous as the fact that it contains the bones
of George Whitefield.

Such are the leading facts in the life of the prince of
English evangelists of a hundred years ago. His personal character, the real
extent of his usefulness, and some account of his style of preaching, are
subjects which I must reserve for another chapter.

George Whitefield, in my judgment, was so entirely chief and first among the
English Reformers of the last century, that I make no apology for offering
some further information about him. The real amount of good he did, the
peculiar character of his preaching, the private character of the man—are
all points that deserve consideration. They are points, I may add, about
which there is a vast amount of misconception.

This misconception perhaps is unavoidable, and ought not
to surprise us. The materials for forming a correct opinion about such a man
as Whitefield are necessarily very scanty. He wrote no book for the
millions, of world-wide fame, like Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." He headed
no crusade against an apostate Church, with a nation at his back, and
princes on his side, like Martin Luther. He founded no religious
denomination, which pinned its faith on his writings and carefully embalmed
his best acts and words, like John Wesley. There are Lutherans and Wesleyans
in the present day—but there are no Whitefieldites. No! The great evangelist
of last century was a simple, sincere man, who lived for one thing only—and
that was to preach Christ. If he did that, he cared for nothing else. The
records of such a man are large and full in heaven, I have no doubt.
But they are few and scanty upon earth.

We must not forget, beside this, that the many in every
age see nothing in a man like Whitefield—but fanaticism and enthusiasm. They
abhor everything like "zeal" in religion. They dislike everyone who turns
the world upside down, and departs from old traditional ways, and will not
let the devil alone. Such people, no doubt, would tell us that the ministry
of Whitefield only produced temporary excitement, that his preaching was
common-place rant, and that his character had nothing about it to be
specially admired. It may be feared that eighteen hundred years ago they
would have said much the same of Paul.

The question, "What good did Whitefield do?" is
one which I answer without the least hesitation. I believe that the direct
good which he did to immortal souls was enormous. I will go further—I
believe it is incalculable. Credible witnesses in England, Scotland, and
America, have placed on record their conviction that he was the means of
converting thousands of people. Many, wherever he preached, were not merely
pleased, excited, and arrested—but positively turned from sin, and made
thorough servants of God. "Numbering the people", I do not forget, is at all
times an objectionable practice. God alone can read hearts and discern the
wheat from the tares. Many, no doubt, in days of religious excitement, are
set down as converted who are not converted at all. But I wish my readers to
understand that my high estimate of Whitefield's usefulness is based on a
solid foundation. I ask them to mark well what Whitefield's contemporaries
thought of the value of his labors.

Franklin, the well-known American philosopher, was a
cold-blooded, calculating man, a Quaker by profession, and not likely to
form too high an estimate of any minister's work. Yet even he confessed that
"it was wonderful to see the change soon made by his preaching in the
manners of the inhabitants of Philadelphia. From being thoughtless or
indifferent about religion, it seemed as if all the world were growing
religious." Franklin himself, it may be remarked, was the leading printer of
religious works at Philadelphia; and his readiness to print Whitefield's
sermons and journals shows his judgment of the hold that he had on the
American mind.

Maclaurin, Willison, and Macculloch, were Scotch
ministers whose names are well known north of the Tweed, and the two former
of whom deservedly rank high as theological writers. All these have
repeatedly testified that Whitefield was made an instrument of doing immense
good in Scotland. Willison in particular says, "that God honored him with
surprising success among sinners of all ranks and persuasions".

Old Henry Venn, of Huddersfield, was a man of strong good
sense, as well as of great grace. His opinion was, that "if the greatness,
extent, success, and unselfishness of a man's labors can give him
distinction among the children of Christ—then we are warranted to affirm
that scarcely any one has equaled Mr. Whitefield". Again he says: "He was
abundantly successful in his vast labors. The seals of his ministry, from
first to last, I am persuaded, were more than could be credited could the
number be fixed. This is certain, his amazing popularity was only from his
usefulness; for he no sooner opened his mouth as a preacher, than God
commanded an extraordinary blessing upon his word."

John Newton was a sincere man, as well as an eminent
minister of the gospel. His testimony is: "That which finished Mr.
Whitefield's character as a shining light, and is now his crown of
rejoicing, was the singular success which the Lord was pleased to give him
in winning souls. It seemed as if he never preached in vain. Perhaps there
is hardly a place in all the extensive compass of his labors where some may
not yet be found who thankfully acknowledge him as their spiritual father."

John Wesley did not agree with Whitefield on several
theological points of great importance. But when he preached his funeral
sermon, he said: "Have we read or heard of any person who called so many
thousands, so many myriads of sinners to repentance? Above all, have we read
or heard of any one who has been the blessed instrument of bringing so many
sinners from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God?"

Valuable as these testimonies undoubtedly are, there is
one point which they leave totally untouched. That point is the quantity of
indirect which that Whitefield did. Great as the direct effects of
his labors were, I believe firmly that the indirect effects were even
greater. His ministry was made a blessing to thousands who never perhaps
either saw or heard him.

He was among the first in the eighteenth century who
revived attention to the old truths which produced the Protestant
Reformation. His constant assertion of the doctrines taught by the
Reformers, his repeated reference to the Articles and Homilies, and the
divinity of the best English theologians, obliged many to think, and roused
them to examine their own principles. If the whole truth was known, I
believe it would prove that the rise and progress of the Evangelical body in
the Church of England received a mighty impulse from George Whitefield.

But this is not the only indirect good that Whitefield
did in his day. He was among the first to show the right way to meet the
attacks of infidels and sceptics on Christianity. He saw clearly that the
most powerful weapon against such men is not cold, metaphysical reasoning
and dry critical disquisition—but preaching the whole gospel—but
living the whole gospel—and spreading the whole gospel. It was
not the writings of Leland, and the younger Sherlock, and Waterland, and
Leslie, which halted the flood of infidelity, one half so much as the
preaching of Whitefield and his companions. They were the men who were the
true champions of Christianity. Infidels are seldom shaken by a mere
abstract reasoning. The surest argument against them are gospel truth
and gospel life.

Above all, he was the very first Englishman who seems to
have thoroughly understood what Dr. Chalmers aptly called the aggressive
system. He was the first to see that Christ's ministers must do the work of
fishermen. They must not wait for souls to come to them—but must go
after souls, and "compel them to come in". He did not sit tamely by his fire
side, like a cat in a rainy day, mourning over the wickedness of the land.
He went forth to beard the devil in his high places. He attacked sin and
wickedness face to face, and gave them no peace. He dived into holes and
corners after sinners! He hunted out ignorance and vice wherever they could
be found. In short, he set on foot a system of action which, up to his time,
had been comparatively unknown in this country—but a system which, once
commenced, has never ceased to be employed down to the present day. City
missions, town missions, district visiting societies, open-air preachings,
home missions, special services, theater preachings, are all evidences that
the value of the "aggressive system" is now thoroughly recognized by all the
Churches. We understand better how to go to work now than we did a hundred
years ago. But let us never forget that the first man to commence
operations of this kind was George Whitefield, and let us give him the
credit he deserves.

The peculiar character of Whitefield's preaching is the
subject which next demands some consideration. Men naturally wish to know
what was the secret of his unparalleled success. The subject is one
surrounded with considerable difficulty, and it is no easy matter to form a
correct judgment about it. The common idea of many people, that he was a
mere common-place ranting Methodist, remarkable for nothing but great
fluency, strong doctrine, and a loud voice—will not bear a moment's
investigation.

It is a fact that no preacher in England has ever
succeeded in arresting the attention of such crowds as Whitefield constantly
addressed around London. No preacher has ever been so universally popular in
every country that he visited—in England, Scotland and America. No preacher
has ever retained his hold on his hearers so entirely as he did for
thirty-four years. His popularity never waned. It was as great at the end of
his day as it was at the beginning. Wherever he preached, men would leave
their workshop and employments to gather round him, and hear like those who
heard for eternity. This of itself is a great fact. To command the ear of
"the masses" for a quarter of a century, and to be preaching incessantly the
whole time, is an evidence of no common power.

It is another fact that Whitefield's preaching produced a
powerful effect on people in every rank of life. He won the
admiration of high as well as low, of rich as well as poor, of learned as
well as unlearned. if his preaching had been popular with none but the
uneducated and the poor, we might have thought it possible that there was
little in it but rhetoric and noise. But, so far from this being the case,
he seems to have been acceptable to numbers of the nobility and gentry. The
Marquis of Lothian, the Earl of Leven, the Earl of Buchan, Lord Rae, Lord
Dartmouth, Lord James A. Gordon, might be named among his warmest admirers,
beside Lady Huntingdon and a host of ladies.

It is a fact that eminent critics and literary men, like
Lord Bolingbroke and Lord Chesterfield, were frequently his delighted
hearers. Even the cold artificial Chesterfield was known to warm under
Whitefield's eloquence. Bolingbroke said, "He is the most extraordinary
man in our times. He has the most commanding eloquence I ever heard in any
person." Franklin the philosopher spoke in no measured terms of his
preaching powers. Hume the historian declared that it was worth going twenty
miles to hear him.

Now, facts like these can never be explained away. They
completely upset the theory that Whitefield's preaching was nothing but
noise and rant. Bolingbroke, Chesterfield, Hume, and Franklin, were not men
to be easily deceived. They were no poor judges of eloquence. They were
probably among the best qualified critics of their day. Their unbought and
unbiased opinions appear to me to supply unanswerable proof that there must
have been something very extraordinary about Whitefield's preaching. But
still, after all, the question remains to be answered, What was the secret
of Whitefield's unrivaled popularity and effectiveness? And I frankly admit
that, with the scanty materials we possess for forming our judgement, the
question is a very hard one to answer.

The man who turns to the seventy-five sermons
published under Whitefield's name will probably be much disappointed. He
will see in them no commanding intellect or grasp of mind. He will find in
them no deep philosophy, and no very striking thoughts. It is only fair,
however, to say, that by far the greater part of these sermons were taken
down in shorthand by reporters, and published without correction.
These worthy men appear to have done their work very indifferently, and were
evidently ignorant alike of stopping and paragraphing, of grammar and of
gospel. The consequence is, that many passages in these seventy-five sermons
are what Bishop Latimer would have called a "mingle-mangle," and what we
call in this day "a complete mess." No wonder that poor Whitefield says, in
one of his last letters, dated September 26, 1769, "I wish you had
advertised against the publication of my last sermon. It is not verbatim as
I delivered it. In some places it makes me speak false concord, and even
nonsense. In others the sense and connection are destroyed by injudicious,
disjointed paragraphs, and the whole is entirely unfit for the public
review."

I venture, however, to say boldly that, with all their
faults, Whitefield's printed sermons will well repay a candid perusal. The
reader must recollect that they were not carefully prepared for the press,
like the sermons of Melville or Bradley—but wretchedly reported,
paragraphed, and stopped, and he must read with this continually before his
mind. Moreover, he must remember that English composition for speaking
to hearers, and English composition for private reading, are
almost like two different languages, so that sermons which "preach" well
"read" badly. Let him, I say, remember these two things, and judge
accordingly, and I am much mistaken if he does not find much to admire in
many of Whitefield's sermons. For my own part, I must plainly say that I
think they are greatly underrated.

Let me now point out what appear to have been the
distinctive characteristics of Whitefield's preaching.

For one thing, Whitefield preached a singularly pure
gospel. Few men, perhaps, ever gave their hearers so much wheat—and
so little chaff. He did not get up to talk about his party, his
cause, his interest or his office. He was perpetually telling you about your
sins, your heart, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, the absolute need of
repentance, faith, and holiness—in the way that the Bible presents these
mighty subjects. "Oh, the righteousness of Jesus Christ!" he would often
say: "I must be excused if I mention it in almost all my sermons." Preaching
of this kind is the preaching that God delights to honor. It must be
pre-eminently a manifestation of truth.

For another thing, Whitefield's preaching was singularly
clear and simple. His hearers, whatever they might think of
his doctrine, could never fail to understand what he meant. His style of
speaking was easy, plain, and conversational. He seemed to abhor long and
involved sentences. He always saw his mark, and went directly at it. He
seldom troubled his hearers with abstruse argument and intricate reasoning.
Simple Bible statements, apt illustrations, and pertinent anecdotes, were
the more common weapons that he used. The consequence was that his hearers
always understood him. He never shot above their heads. Here again is one
grand element of a preacher's success. He must labor by all means to be
understood. It was a wise saying of Archbishop Usher, "To make easy
things seem hard is every man's work; but to make hard things easy is the
work of a great preacher".

For another thing, Whitefield was a singularly bold
and direct preacher. He never used that indefinite expression
"we", which seems so peculiar to English pulpit oratory, and which only
leaves a hearer's mind in a state of misty confusion. He met men face to
face, like one who had a message from God to them, "I have come here to
speak to you about your soul". The result was that many of his
hearers used often to think that his sermons were specially meant for
themselves. He was not content, as many, with sticking on a meager
tail-piece of application at the end of a long discourse. On the contrary,
a constant vein of application ran through all his sermons. "This is for
you—and this is for you." His hearers were never let alone.

Another striking feature in Whitefield's preaching was
his singular power of description. The Arabians have a proverb which
says, "He is the best orator who can turn men's ears into eyes!"
Whitefield seems to have had a peculiar faculty of doing this. He dramatized
his subject so thoroughly that it seemed to move and walk before your eyes.
He used to draw such vivid pictures of the things he was handling, that his
hearers could believe they actually saw and heard them. "On one occasion",
says one of his biographers, "Lord Chesterfield was among his hearers. The
great preacher, in describing the miserable condition of an unconverted
sinner, illustrated the subject by describing a blind beggar. The night was
dark, and the road dangerous. The poor mendicant was deserted by his dog
near the edge of a precipice, and had nothing to aid him in groping his way
but his staff. Whitefield so warmed with his subject, and enforced it with
such graphic power, that the whole auditory was kept in breathless silence,
as if it saw the movements of the poor old man; and at length, when the
beggar was about to take the fatal step which would have hurled him down the
precipice to certain destruction, Lord Chesterfield actually made a rush
forward to save him, exclaiming aloud, "He is gone! he is gone!" The noble
Lord had been so entirely carried away by the preacher, that he forgot the
whole was a picture."

Another leading characteristic of Whitefield's preaching
was his tremendous earnestness. One poor uneducated man said of him,
that "he preached like a lion!" He succeeded in showing people that
he at least believed all he was saying—and that his heart, and soul, and
mind, and strength, were bent on making them believe it too. His sermons
were not like the morning and evening gun at Portsmouth, a kind of formal
discharge, fired off as a matter of course, which disturbs nobody. They were
all life and fire. There was no getting away from them. Sleep was next to
impossible. You must listen whether you liked it or not. There was a holy
violence about him which firmly took your attention by storm. You were
fairly carried off your legs by his energy before you had time to consider
what you would do. This, we may be sure, was one secret of his success. We
must convince men that we are in earnest ourselves, if we want to be
believed. The difference between one preacher and another, is often not so
much in the things said, as in the manner in which they are said.

It is recorded by one of his biographers that an American
gentleman once went to hear him, for the first time, in consequence of the
report he heard of his preaching powers. The day was rainy, the congregation
comparatively thin, and the beginning of the sermon rather heavy. Our
American friend began to say to himself, "This man is no great wonder after
all". He looked round, and saw the congregation as little interested as
himself. One old man, in front of the pulpit, had fallen asleep. But all at
once Whitefield stopped short. His countenance changed. And then he suddenly
broke forth in an altered tone: "If I had come to speak to you in my own
name, you might well rest your elbows on your knees, and your heads on your
hands, and sleep; and once in a while look up, and say, What is this babbler
talking of? But I have not come to you in my own name. No! I have come to
you in the name of the Lord Almighty!" (here he brought down his hand and
foot with a force that made the building ring) "and I must and will be
heard!" The congregation startled. The old man woke up at once. "Ay, ay!"
cried Whitefield, fixing his eyes on him, "I have waked you up, have I? I
meant to do it. I am not come here to preach to stocks and stones! I have
come to you in the name of the Lord God Almighty, and I must, and will, have
an audience!" The hearers were stripped of their apathy at once. Every word
of the sermon after this was heard with deep attention, and the American
gentleman never forgot it.

One more feature in Whitefield's preaching deserves
special notice; and that is, the immense amount of pathos and
feeling which it always contained. It was no uncommon thing with him to
weep profusely in the pulpit. Cornelius Winter, who often accompanied him in
his latter journeys, went so far as to say that he hardly ever knew him to
get through a sermon without some tears. There seems to have been nothing of
affectation in this. He felt intensely for the souls before him, and
his feelings found an outlet in tears. Of all the ingredients of his success
in preaching, none, I suspect, were so powerful as this. It awakened
affections and touched secret springs in men, which no amount of reasonable
and demonstration could have moved. It smoothed down the prejudices which
many had conceived against him. They could not hate the man who wept so
much over their souls! "I came to hear you", said one to him, "with my
pocket full of stones, intending to break your head; but your sermon got the
better of me—and broke my heart!" Once become satisfied that a man loves
you—and you will listen gladly to anything he has to say.

I will now ask the reader to add to this analysis of
Whitefield's preaching, that even by nature he possessed several of the
rarest gifts which fit a man to be an orator. His action was
perfect—so perfect that even Garrick, the famous actor, gave it unqualified
praise. His voice was as wonderful as his action—so powerful that he
could make thirty thousand people hear him at once, and yet so musical and
well-toned that some said he could raise tears by his pronunciation of the
word "Mesopotamia". His manner in the pulpit was so wondrously
graceful and fascinating that it was said that no one could hear him for
five minutes without forgetting that he squinted. His fluency and
command of appropriate language were of the highest order, prompting him
always to use the right word and to put it in the right place. Add, I
repeat, these gifts to the things already mentioned, and then consider
whether there is not sufficient in our hands to account for his power and
popularity as a preacher.

For my own part, I have no hesitation in saying that I
believe no English preacher has ever possessed such a combination of
excellent qualifications as Whitefield. Some, no doubt, have surpassed
him in some of his gifts; others, perhaps, have equaled him in others. But
for a well-balanced combination of some of the finest gifts that a preacher
can possess, united with an unrivaled voice, manner, delivery, action,
and command of words, Whitefield, I repeat my opinion, stands alone. No
Englishman, I believe, dead or alive, has ever equaled him. And I suspect we
shall always find that, just in proportion as preachers have approached that
wondrous combination of rare gifts which Whitefield possessed, just in that
very proportion have they attained what one defines true eloquence to
be—"a strange power of making themselves believed".

The inner life and personal character of this great
spiritual hero of the last century are a branch of my subject on which I
shall not dwell at any length. In fact, there is no necessity for my doing
so. He was a singularly transparent man. There was nothing about him
requiring apology or explanation. His faults and good qualities were both
clear and plain as noon-day. I shall therefore content myself with simply
pointing out the prominent features of his CHARACTER, so far as they
can be gathered from his letters and the accounts of his contemporaries, and
then bring my sketch of him to a conclusion.

He was a man of deep and unfeigned humility. No
one can read the fourteen hundred letters of his, without observing this.
Again and again, in the very zenith of his popularity, we find him speaking
of himself and his works in the lowliest terms. "God be merciful to me a
sinner", he writes on September 11, 1753, "and give me, for his infinite
mercy's sake, an humble, thankful, and resigned heart. Truly I am viler than
the vilest, and stand amazed at his employing such a wretch as I am." "Let
none of my friends", he writes on December 27, 1753, "cry to such a
sluggish, lukewarm, unprofitable worm, Spare yourself. Rather spur me on, I
beg you, with an Awake, you sleeper, and begin to do something for your
God." Language like this, no doubt, seems foolishness and affectation to the
world; but the well-instructed Bible reader will see in it the heart-felt
experience of all the brightest saints. It is the language of men like
Baxter, and Brainerd, and M"Cheyne. It is the same mind that was in the
inspired Apostle Paul. Those that have most light and grace are always the
humblest men.

He was a man of burning love to our Lord Jesus Christ.
That name which is "above every name" stands out incessantly in all his
correspondence. Like fragrant ointment, it gives a savor to all his
communications. He seems never weary of saying something about Jesus. "My
Master", as George Herbert said, is never long out of his mind. His love,
his atonement, his precious blood, his righteousness, his readiness to
receive sinners, his patience and tender dealing with saints—are themes
which appear ever fresh before his eyes. In this respect, at least, there is
a curious likeness between him and that glorious Scotch divine, Samuel
Rutherford.

He was a man of unwearied diligence and
laboriousness about his Master's business. It would be difficult,
perhaps, to name any one in the annals of the Churches who worked so hard
for Christ, and so thoroughly spent himself in his service. Henry Venn, in a
funeral sermon for him, preached at Bath, bore the following testimony:
"What a sign and wonder was this man of God in the greatness of his labors!
One cannot but stand amazed that his mortal frame could, for the space of
near thirty years, without interruption, sustain the weight of them; for
what so trying to the human frame in youth especially, as long-continued,
frequent, and violent straining of the lungs? Who that knows their structure
would think it possible that a person little above the age of manhood could
speak in a single week, and that for years—but in general forty hours,
and in very many weeks sixty hours—and that to thousands; and after
this labor, instead of taking any rest, could be offering up prayers and
intercessions, with hymns and spiritual songs, as his manner was, in every
house to which he was invited? The truth is, that in point of labor this
extraordinary servant of God did as much in a few weeks as most of those who
exert themselves are able to do in the space of a year!"

He was to the end a man of eminent self-denial.
His style of living was most simple. He was remarkable to a proverb for
moderation in eating and drinking. All through life he was an early
riser. His usual hour for getting up was four o'clock, both in summer and
winter; and equally punctual was he in retiring about ten at night. A man of
prayerful habits, he frequently spent whole nights in reading and devotion.
Cornelius Winter, who often slept in the same room, says that he would
sometimes rise during the night for this purpose. He cared little for money,
except as a help to the cause of Christ, and refused it, when pressed upon
him for his own use, once to the amount of £7,000. He amassed no fortune,
and founded no wealthy family. The little money he left behind him at his
death arose entirely from the legacies of friends. The Pope's coarse saying
about Luther, "This German beast does not love gold!", might have been
equally applied to Whitefield.

He was a man of remarkable unselfishness, and
singleness of eye. He seemed to live only for two objects—but the glory
of God and the salvation of souls. Of secondary and covert objects he knew
nothing at all. He raised no party of followers who took his name. He
established no denominational system, of which his own writings
should be cardinal elements. A favorite expression of his is most
characteristic of the man: "Let the name of George Whitefield perish—so long
as Christ is exalted!"

He was a man of a singularly happy and cheerful spirit.
No one who saw him could ever doubt that he enjoyed his religion. Tried as
he was in many ways throughout his ministry—but slandered by some, despised
by others, misrepresented by false brethren, opposed everywhere by the
ignorant clergy of his time, worried by incessant controversy—but his
elasticity never failed him. He was eminently a rejoicing Christian, whose
very demeanor recommended his Master's service. A venerable lady of New
York, after his death, when speaking of the influences by which the Spirit
won her heart to God, used these remarkable words, "Mr. Whitefield was so
cheerful that it tempted me to become a Christian".

Last—but not least, he was a man of extraordinary
charity, catholicity, and liberality in his religion. He
knew nothing of that narrow-minded feeling which makes some men imagine that
everything must be barren—outside their own camps, and that their own party
has got a complete monopoly of truth and heaven. He loved all who loved the
Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity. He measured all by the measure which the
angels use, "Did they profess repentance towards God, faith towards our Lord
Jesus Christ, and holiness of conversation?" If they did, they were as his
brethren. His soul was with such men, by whatever name they were
called. Minor differences were wood, hay, and stubble to him. The marks of
the Lord Jesus were the only marks he cared for. This catholicity is the
more remarkable when the spirit of the times he lived in is considered. Even
the Erskines, in Scotland, wanted him to preach for no other denomination
but their own—namely, the Secession Church. He asked them, "Why only for
them?"—and received the notable answer that "they were the Lord's people."
This was more than Whitefield could stand. He asked "if there were no other
Lord's people but themselves;" he told them, "if all others were the devil's
people—they certainly had more need to be preached to;" and he wound up by
informing them, that "if the Pope himself would lend him his pulpit, he
would gladly proclaim the righteousness of Christ in it!" To this
catholicity of spirit, he adhered all his days. If other Christians
misrepresented him—he forgave them; and it they refused to work with
him—he still loved them. Nothing could be a more weighty testimony against
narrow-mindedness than his request, made shortly before his death, that,
when he did died, John Wesley should be asked to preach his funeral sermon.
Wesley and he had long ceased to agree about Calvinistic points; but
Whitefield, to the very last, was determined to forget minor differences,
and to regard Wesley as Calvin did Luther, "only as a good servant of Jesus
Christ." On another occasion a censorious professor of religion asked him
"whether he thought they would see John Wesley in heaven?" "No, sir," was
the striking answer; "He will be so near the throne, and we shall be at such
a distance, that we shall hardly get a sight of him!"

Far be it from me to say that the subject of this chapter
was a man without faults. Like all God's saints, he was an imperfect
creature. He sometimes erred, in judgment. He often drew rash conclusions
about Providence, and mistook his own inclination for God's leadings. He was
frequently hasty both with his tongue and his pen. He had no business to say
that "Archbishop Tillotson knew no more of the gospel than Mahomet." He was
wrong to set down some people as the Lord's enemies, and others as the
Lord's friends so precipitately and positively as he sometimes did. He was
to blame for denouncing many of the clergy as "letter-learned Pharisees,"
because they could not receive the doctrine of the new birth. But still,
after all this has been said, there can be no doubt that in the main, he was
an eminently holy, self-denying, and consistent man. "The faults of his
character," says an American writer, "were like spots on the sun—but
detected without much difficulty by any cool and careful observer who takes
pains to look for them—but to all practical purposes lost in one general and
genial effulgence." Well indeed would it be for the Churches of our day, if
God was to give them more ministers like the great evangelist of England a
hundred years ago!

A short extract from the conclusion of a sermon preached
by Whitefield on Kennington Common, may be interesting to some readers, and
may serve to give, them some faint idea of the great preacher's style. It
was a sermon on the text, "What do you think of Christ?" (Matt. 22:42.)

"O my brethren, my heart is enlarged towards you. I trust
I feel something of that hidden but powerful presence of Christ, while I am
preaching to you. Indeed it is sweet—but it is exceedingly comfortable. All
the harm I wish you who without cause are my enemies, is that you felt the
like. Believe me, though it would be hell to my soul to return to a natural
state again, yet I would willingly change states with you for a little
while, that you might know what it is to have Christ dwelling in your hearts
by faith.

Do not turn your backs. Do not let the devil hurry you
away. Be not afraid of convictions. Do not think worse of the doctrine
because preached outside the church walls. Our Lord, in the days of his
flesh, preached on a mount, in a ship, and a field; and I am persuaded many
have felt his gracious presence here. Indeed, we speak what we know. Do not
therefore reject the kingdom of God against yourselves. Be so wise as to
receive our witness.

"I cannot, I will not let you go. Stay a little, and let
us reason together. However lightly you may esteem your souls, I know
our Lord has set an unspeakable value on them. He thought them worthy of his
most precious blood. I beseech you, therefore, O sinners, be reconciled to
God. I hope you do not fear being accepted in the Beloved. Behold, he calls
you. Behold, he follows you with his mercy, and has sent forth his servants
into the highways and hedges to compel you to come in.

"Remember, then, that at such an hour of such a day, in
such a year, in this place, you were all told what you ought to think
concerning Jesus Christ. If you now perish, it will not be from lack of
knowledge. I am free from the blood of you all. You cannot say I have been
preaching damnation to you. You cannot say I have, like legal preachers,
been requiring you to make bricks without straw. I have not bidden you to
make yourselves saints and then come to God. I have offered you salvation on
as cheap terms as you can desire. I have offered you Christ's whole wisdom,
Christ's whole righteousness, Christ's whole sanctification and eternal
redemption, if you will but believe on him. If you say you cannot believe,
you say right; for faith, as well as every other blessing, is the gift of
God. But then wait upon God, and who knows but he may have mercy on you.

"Why do we not entertain more loving thoughts of Christ?
Do you think he will have mercy on others and not on you? Are you not
sinners? Did not Jesus Christ come into the world to save sinners?

"If you say you are the chief of sinners, I answer that
will be no hindrance to your salvation. Indeed it will not, if you lay hold
on Christ by faith. Read the Gospels, and see how kindly he behaved to his
disciples, who had fled from and denied him. 'Go, tell my brethren,' says
he. He did not say, 'Go, tell those traitors,' but, 'Go, tell my
brethren and Peter.' It is as though he had said, 'Go, tell my brethren
in general, and Peter in particular, that I am risen. Oh, comfort his poor
drooping heart. Tell him I am reconciled to him. Bid him weep no more so
bitterly. For though with oaths and curses he thrice denied me, yet I have
died for his sins; I have risen again for his justification: I freely
forgive him all." Thus slow to anger and of great kindness, was our
all-merciful High Priest. And do you think he has changed his nature and
forgets poor sinners, now he is exalted to the right hand of God? No; he is
the same yesterday, today, and forever; and sits there only to make
intercession for us.

"Come, then, you harlots; come, you publicans; come, you
most abandoned sinners, come and believe on Jesus Christ. Though the whole
world despise you and cast you out, yet he will not disdain to take you up.
Oh amazing, oh infinitely condescending love! Even you, he will not be
ashamed to call his brethren. How will you escape if you neglect such a
glorious offer of salvation? What would the damned spirits now in the prison
of hell give if Christ was so freely offered to them? And why are we not
lifting up our eyes in torments? Does any one out of this great multitude
dare say he does not deserve damnation? Why are we left, and others taken
away by death? What is this but an instance of God's free grace, and a sign
of his good-will toward us? Let God's goodness lead us to repentance. Oh,
let there be joy in heaven over some of you repenting!"